


The Hard Sell

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Magical Healing Cock, Oral Sex, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well,” John said, nodding downwards, “I can’t take ALL the credit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hard Sell

This is a fill for [two](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=102507087#t102507087) [prompts](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/11848.html?thread=60987208#t60987208) on the kinkmeme, both of which asked for the same thing: John has a Magical Healing You-Know-What. It’s also a fill for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=83701141#t83701141).

**Due to my strong personal convictions, I wish to stress that this fic in no way endorses a belief in the ability of cock to solve problems.**

 

 

*****

Air displacement: When Sherlock slammed the door on the first floor, the curtains billowed in John’s room on the second floor. John muttered to no one in particular, “What have I told him about slamming doors.” Then came the rattle of cookware being toppled, and one of Sherlock’s distinctive cries of frustration. Perhaps it was time to investigate.

John found Sherlock pacing in the sitting room. (The pots and pans all over the floor had rendered pacing in the kitchen impractical.) Sherlock must have been aware of how dramatic he looked, when he turned, and made the shimmering fabric of his silk dressing gown flutter behind him. John took a moment to imagine him practicing his strops in the mirror, getting the flounces just right.

“Tell me there’s been a call, an email, a comment on your blog,” Sherlock panted. “I need a case. I need one.”

 _I know what you need_ , John thought. _And the moment you come near to acknowledging that you need it, I’ll give it to you._ “Not a peep from anyone, I’m afraid,” he replied, and set to tidying up the kitchen.

Sherlock barreled up to him, kicking aside a skillet. “How recently did you check?”

John snapped, “If I recall correctly, it was just before this hurricane blew through here.”

“Please, you must have something.”

When John straightened up, his expression gave Sherlock a fright. He took slow, deliberate steps towards his brat of a flatmate, until he’d backed him up against the wall. When there was a hands-breadth of space between them and nowhere for Sherlock to go, John looked him deeply in the eyes, his nostrils flaring as his gaze flitted down to Sherlock’s mouth, then back up. He could feel Sherlock’s breath on his face; certainly Sherlock could feel his as well.

But the next moment was a sour note being plunked. John’s approach had failed to transmute their mutual frustration into that special tension that begged for a… _particular_ sort of culmination and release. Sherlock returned John’s gaze without a hint of erotic anticipation. The whole thing fell flat, just like that moment they’d almost shared pressed up against each other in that cleaner’s cupboard. Crowding Sherlock and making intense eye contact hadn’t worked in that alley last month, either.

John may have been determined, but he was also patient. He had something he knew Sherlock would like, but it was not his style to force it upon anyone. It was much more enjoyable to be asked nicely for it.  

He reached up and touched Sherlock’s cheek. “You’ve got an eyelash, mate,” he said, and came away with a long lash on his fingertip, which he showed to Sherlock. Then he brushed it off on his trouser leg, uninterested in performing any sort of wish ceremony, and returned to the scattered cookware. “Now, if you’re not going to help--which I know you’re not--then do me a favour and fume _in silence_.”

Sherlock skulked out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, where he got out his laptop and checked, for the seventeenth time that afternoon, for new messages. John paused occasionally in his work to fix Sherlock with a look that was one part contempt and two parts hunger. His approach needed to change, if he wanted to get anywhere. _From now on_ , he decided, _no more soft sell._

 

 

*****

 

“If it’s not for sale, you shouldn’t be advertising it,” was John’s refrain whenever Sherlock strolled about the flat in a state of undress. He would shield his eyes and tut-tut when Sherlock took his time putting on clothes after a shower, or when he sprawled on the sofa and didn’t bother to close his dressing gown when it opened. But John was always careful to scold with a hint of playfulness, hoping to get across the message, “If it _is_ for sale, all you have to do is name your price.”

Sherlock seemed indifferent to both the overt protests of his scandalized flatmate and the more subtle proposition those protests contained. He wore as much or as little clothing as he cared to--stark naked in the kitchen or crawling under a duvet in filthy street clothes--and could not be influenced by appeals either to common sense or common decency. He did not seem to understand why John might find his decision to behave this way…disquieting.

This particular evening, Sherlock was standing in front of his chair, staring into the crackling fireplace, clad only in his pyjama bottoms. Certainly not the most licentious state John had ever found him in, but the way Sherlock stood with his hip cocked and his contemplative expression did nothing to discourage comparisons to Greek sculpture.

“If it’s not for sale…” John began, then stopped himself. Sherlock did not respond to John’s voice, but stood motionless, save for his hand, which fiddled with the frayed end of the drawstring of his pyjamas. He also failed to respond to John’s devouring stare.

No more soft sell. John went through the kitchen and into Sherlock’s bedroom. From there, he shouted, “Sherlock, could you come in here, please? I’ve something I want to show you.”

Sherlock grunted and did not move. After ten seconds, John shouted again: “ _Now_ , if you please.”

Still toying with the drawstring, Sherlock came padding in. He found John simply standing there, halfway between the door and the bed. The room was dark; the only light came from the hallway. “What is it you want to show me,” he asked, “and why are you in my bedroom?”

As Sherlock approached, John pivoted, placing himself between Sherlock and the door. “Are you really so naïve?” he asked. He shook his head when the look in Sherlock’s eyes implied that the answer was _Possibly_. “Look, no more games, alright? No more of you showing off your goods and me pretending I don’t approve. No more of you tearing up the place when you’re bored and me not employing every method at my disposal to calm you down.”

Sherlock let John step closer to him. “To what heretofore unapplied methods are you referring?” he asked.

“Admittedly, there’s only one…” John placed a hand over the zip of his jeans. “…But it’s a reliable one. Have a look.” He pinched the tab of the zip between thumb and forefinger and slid it down, slowly and deliberately. He popped the top button, then reached in and tugged the waistband of his boxers down. What sprang forth gave Sherlock a start: a perfectly formed, beautifully proportioned, majestically angled erection, which emitted a soft, golden glow. John held it at the base to display it for Sherlock, and as he twitched it lightly up and down, a flurry of glittering-gold sparkles trailed lazily around it. The illumination it gave wasn’t enough to read by, but it would have made a decent night-light.

Sherlock managed to gather up his dropped jaw long enough to say, “How…interesting. May I please examine it more closely?”

John chuckled. “‘Please?’ I’ve never heard you _beg_ to examine something before. You always just get out your lens. But yes, you may examine it.”

Sherlock kneeled to get a closer look. He found, as John’s cock nodded with each heartbeat, the glow had a slight pulse. He detected flecks of blue, green, red and silver amongst the golden halo of sparkles.

“I don’t understand how this is done,” Sherlock said, looking up at John.

“What, are you waiting for a George Lucas trademark to appear? It’s _magical_.”

“There’s no such thing as magic. What makes it magic?”

“Well, for one, it shows misguided people the error of their ways. Rids them of their ridiculous notions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the notion that they don’t want me to have sex with them.”

“Can I touch it?”

John smiled slyly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Sherlock tapped at the shaft with the tip of one finger. The moment he made contact with it, a strange urge came over him. He felt a warmth in his belly, an urge to shift slightly so that he could increase the contact between his own genitals and the fabric of his pyjama bottoms. His curiosity grew more intense. “Has it always been like this?” he asked.

“So far as I can remember. But don’t let it’s mystical properties mislead you. From a structural standpoint, it’s basically like a normal cock. You can put it in your mouth, for instance.”

Sherlock was unable to come up with a reason not to do this. He held John’s prick in his hand and tipped his head forward, so that the glans pressed against his bottom lip. The drop of pre-come at the tip trickled into his mouth; it tasted like sweet milk. Sherlock made a noise of pleased surprise and lapped at the tip to get more. When another drop came, Sherlock became uncontrollably greedy. He wanted a lot more, _now_. He wrapped his hand around the shaft and gave it quick, firm tugs, while his tongue swirled round the glans and tongued the slit to catch his reward as it trickled out.

Then John gave a deep groan, and Sherlock’s mouth was filled with a burst of the sweet, intoxicating fluid. Sherlock kept the seal of his mouth tight, so not a drop would escape. As the spurts tapered off, Sherlock pulled back a bit, squeezing harder with his hand until no more would come. He looked up at John. “That didn’t taste like what I’d understood it to taste like.”

“Well no, of course not. Have you not gotten the idea yet that it is magical?”

John put himself away, but did not close his zip or the top button. Sherlock stood up. He had no idea what had just come over him, and was a bit embarrassed at what he had done. The feeling hadn’t quite gone yet; he was still tenting his pyjama bottoms. John reached out to tug at the waistband, just enough to confirm that Sherlock was wearing nothing underneath.

“What’s going to happen next?” Sherlock asked.

“Only what you want to happen, and only when you ask for it.”

Sherlock looked away. “You mean sex. Proper sex.”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

Sherlock was blushing. He pressed his lips together, then whispered, “I think I’ve waited too long for it.”

“No,” John cooed, “no no no, not at all. You’ve waited just the right amount of time. You’ve waited until now, which is when you were ready for me, and so now is perfect.” John stepped closer; they were touching, chest-to-chest. He breathed against Sherlock’s neck, “You’re like a ripe piece of fruit, so plump and ready for plucking that you’re going to fall into my hand the moment I just brush my fingers against you. And when I take my first bite of you, you’ll be the sweetest, juiciest thing I’ve ever tasted.” And with that, he caressed Sherlock’s aching erection through his pyjamas, and Sherlock whimpered.

“But I do hope,” John said, “that you’re prepared to only have one sexual partner in your lifetime, because I’m going to be so good to you, it will spoil you for anyone else who might try to have you. The fact is, no one will ever be able to pleasure you the way I can, so if you go astray, you’ll only be disappointed. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded, his lips pressed together again, unsure of how to proceed and obviously mortified about it.

“I’ll take you to bed,” John said, “but you must _ask_ me to.”

After a long moment and some fidgeting, Sherlock said, “Take me to bed,” without producing any actual vocalization.

“See, that was easy, wasn’t it? Let’s get you undressed and into the bed, and then we’ll make you feel better.”

“We?”

“Well,” John said, nodding downwards, “I can’t take _all_ the credit.” He gave Sherlock a nudge, and the rest Sherlock did of his own accord, sitting himself down on the bed, then budging over so John had plenty of room to join him. John kneeled over Sherlock and grabbed either side of the waistband of his pyjamas to pull them off. It took some doing, as it did not occur to Sherlock to help by lifting his bum. Once John had tossed the article aside, he leaned in for a kiss. He was hoping that Sherlock would undress him in return. But even when John placed Sherlock’s hand at the hem of his shirt, Sherlock kept it there, clutching the fabric in his fist as the kiss became deeper, and overwhelmed him.

Finally, John stood and undressed himself; Sherlock watched, mesmerised. “Hmm, almost forgot,” John said, and darted out for a moment before returning with a bottle of something clear and viscous. “Can’t proceed much further without this.” He set the bottle on the bedside table.

Sherlock picked it up and read the label. “Will it hurt?”

“No, no, not with mine. Here, let me try to give you an idea of how it will feel. Sit up.”

Sherlock propped himself against two pillows, still reclining slightly, and John straddled his thighs, so his gleaming cock was a bit below Sherlock’s eye level.

“I’ll give you the grand tour, though you’ve already acquainted yourself somewhat.” John took hold of his cock just behind the head, and with one fingertip indicated the ridge, visible beneath the dusky, glowing sheath. “This is the crown. You’ll like it, because it will tease your rim when I’m working it in and out of you.” He slid his fingers back along the shaft until they were buried in his pubic hair. “All of this is going inside you, but we’ll do it slow. You’ll be fine. The base is the part that will stretch you the widest. You may find it uncomfortable at first, but you’ll get used to it, and eventually want even more. One day I’ll put my whole hand inside you.”

“Your whole hand?”

“Yes, but don’t worry. You’ll be fine with it. I’m going to treat you so well, give you so much pleasure, you’ll trust me to do whatever I want to you. You’ll begin to think of your body as belonging to me, and so whatever I want to do, you’ll ask me to do it to you.”

Sherlock had never really thought about the empty space he might have inside him. But gazing at John’s cock, with its hypnotizing swirl of sparkles, he was certainly glad that John was there now to fill it up for him, in whatever way was needed.

John rolled to the side and made an inviting gesture. “But, one thing at a time, hm? Whenever you’re ready, you may climb aboard.”

Sherlock’s head was swimmy, like he’d taken cold medicine, but even in his haze he felt nervous about getting on top of John. He pictured himself, burdened neither by clothing nor inhibition, bouncing merrily on John’s cock, and cringed. “Could we not do it some other way?”

John smiled. “I understand. You’re still feeling a bit shy. Fear not; we’ll get you sorted this way instead.” He sat up and turned so that he could grab Sherlock behind both knees, then pulled him forward, sliding him off the pillows and rendering him fully horizontal with his legs spread. He turned to get the bottle of lube from the bedside table, and when he turned back, he found Sherlock had clamped his thighs shut. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he was clutching them to his chest.

“I’m nervous because it’s my first time,” Sherlock blurted, which made John laugh. He grabbed Sherlock’s knees and pulled them apart again. He remained kneeling alongside Sherlock’s flank, taking one of Sherlock’s hands and placing it on his cock.

“Here, you can touch it a bit more while I get you ready.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock felt pleasantly warm and muddled as soon as he was touching John’s cock. It was hard again, ready for more work. Sherlock occupied himself giving it idle strokes whilst John gently smoothed Sherlock’s soft cock upwards against his belly, and rolled his balls, cupping them away from his target. “Oh,” Sherlock said when a finger went inside him. He couldn’t help squeezing hard around it. John went on touching him there for quite a while, but Sherlock never got bored of it. He continued playing with John whilst John played with him. When a second finger went in, it felt a bit different than when there had been just one.

“Now, let me--” John tried to change his position, but found that Sherlock didn’t want to let go of his cock. “Alright, well you can do it then.” He squirted a stripe of lube up the length of himself, and Sherlock spread it as he kept stroking.

“That’s enough. You can--I said _that’s enough_. It’s time for it to go in, now.”

“Mmm.” The entire time John was getting between Sherlock’s legs and situating himself, Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off John’s cock, until it disappeared from view and probed gently at his arsehole. The moment it touched him there, he felt an overpowering need to have it all the way up him. But John cruelly teased him with it, pushing just he head in, then letting it catch on the snug little ring of muscle before it popped back out. “You feel that? It’s just like I said, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sobbed. “John, please.” He tilted his pelvis, trying to capture John’s cock as it prodded at him. He huffed with frustration when it evaded him.

John chuckled. “You’re a mess and I haven’t even put all of it in yet.”

“What happens when you put all of it in?”

“Let’s find out.” John gave Sherlock a few more tantalizing pushes before finally sliding it all the way inside. Sherlock made a noise of surprise, but then suddenly smiled, though his breath was coming in convulsive gasps. “Oh, John. That was so easy. I thought it was supposed to hurt quite a lot, but it felt wonderful going in.”

John lifted his eyebrows, as if he couldn’t believe that Sherlock could be so dense. “ _Magical_ ,” he lilted. He pulled it all the way out once more, to tease him for just a bit longer. When he did, Sherlock could feel where John had been, could feel that empty space inside him.

John put his fingers back inside Sherlock; they went in much easier than they had at first. “You feel so good,” John murmured. “Are you sure you’ve not got something magical as well?” He was so confident about the whole situation, so comfortable in his own skin. It was difficult for Sherlock to continue feeling so shy. He found his hips moving of their own volition, fucking himself on John’s fingers. “Put it back in,” he cried. He lifted his legs and held them with one hand behind each knee, spreading himself wide. “Please put it back in.”

John grinned. “What a little tart I’ve made you. Alright, since you’ve shown me how much you want it…”

Curled up as he was, Sherlock could watch it going in, then in-and-out, in-and-out, the soft glow disappearing and reappearing. When the room got lighter, he was mesmerised by the glow, and when it got darker, he felt the glowing _inside_ him. “God, John,” he cried, “how do you know just what to do?”

“Eh, I know a bit,” John admitted, “but mostly it sort of guides me. For example, I’m going to try to touch your prostate with it, alright?” He retreated an inch or two, then tipped forward, putting his weight on his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head. He closed his eyes, and pushed in again. Sherlock nearly bucked John right off.

“Unh, _again_ ,” he cried, and John repeated the stroke perfectly.

“ _Oh_ , every time you push on it, I get this…shooting pleasure down my thighs.”

“That’s called being fucked properly,” John said, and proceeded to lay into him, giving him stroke after flawless stroke.

“If I’d have known… _oh_ it was this good,” Sherlock said between convulsions of pleasure, “I would have…tried it before.” Every third breath was a gulp or a grunt.

“No,” John grunted, “it’s best that you waited for me. Nothing’s as good as mine.” He stabbed into Sherlock’s body with astonishing precision, provoking the most delightful noises. It seemed Sherlock was only just now discovering what his body was capable of, its capacity for pleasure.

“Can you do it harder?” Sherlock asked.

“I certainly can. Put your hands on the headboard.”

“Why? _Oh!_ ” Sherlock quickly braced himself against John’s powerful thrusts. “ _Ohhhhhyessssohhhh_.” He planted both feet on the mattress and lifted his pelvis to meet John’s strokes.

“Yes,” John said, “it’s alright to push back. You’re beautiful right now.” He strained his neck to look down so that he might drink in the sight of Sherlock’s body hungrily caressing his cock, but instead was compelled to adjust his balance, so that his body might heave more harmoniously along with Sherlock’s.

With both hands needed to brace against the headboard, Sherlock had none free to touch himself. He whinged, “ _Jooohhhnn I want to cooomme sooo baaaaaad_.” John’s relentless pounding made Sherlock’s words choppy, and their pitch waver.

“You will, my gorgeous thing. You’ve never come as hard as you’re about to.” John sat up so he could hold Sherlock’s hip with one hand and stroke him off with the other. It was mere moments before he felt the spasmodic clutch of Sherlock’s body and the twitching of his cock as it shot three thick ropes of spunk onto his belly. For his efforts, John was also rewarded with twenty seconds of alarmed observations, promises, screams, nonsense, and uncharacteristic declarations of love and gratitude. He gently teased the last of the pleasure out of Sherlock’s cock, until he whimpered at its sensitivity, his thighs quaking around John’s sides.

“Now it’s my turn, alright?” John whispered. “I got to see how good I make you feel; now you can watch me, to see how good you make _me_ feel.” He bent down and wrapped his arms round Sherlock’s waist and gave him a few final, vigorous thrusts, then abruptly stopped, grunting deeply as he filled Sherlock up.

Sherlock continued to shudder, and as soon as John’s cock began to grow soft, Sherlock’s squirming and the little contractions of his body pushed it out.

“Oh God,” he said hoarsely as John rolled off him, “I feel so much better. I was angry about something, earlier, I think. What was I angry about?”

“Don’t know.” John propped himself on one elbow, admiring his handiwork: a satisfied Sherlock lying at his side, happy and sated and full of his spunk.

“Well, I feel marvelous now. And hungry.”

John raised one eyebrow. “You actually feel like eating?”

“I’m ravenous. Have we got anything in the fridge?”

“I’ll get up and look…” John tried to rise, but collapsed back onto the bed. “…mmm, if you don’t mind waiting a minute.”

Lying limp and soft between his thighs, John’s cock retained a soft glow. Sherlock watched its glittery aura swirling lazily in the darkness; he found it soothing. He said, “No…no, I really don’t mind if you stay here a minute longer.”

John wondered, briefly, how often he would have to exercise his special talents in order to keep Sherlock like this, languorous and undemanding. But he discarded the thought, deciding that he would soon grow bored with such a quiet and compliant Sherlock. He would make it a special treat for both of them, then. Just whenever Sherlock asked very nicely.


End file.
